Proud
by spoonsoftea
Summary: [SPOILERS] The conversation that should have happened between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. Following Mrs. Hughes as she considers what being married to Mr. Carson will actually entail, how she frets, and how she deals with it. Partial re-imagining of episode 1, series six, with all the best bits left in.


There is so much I loved about the first episode of series 6, but after I watched it I kept thinking that Mrs. Hughes was a bit out of character. It is 1925, I grant you, so talking about sex is a little different, but she's usually so straightforward. She always takes the bull by the horns. And there were a few lines of dialogue that made me cringe. Plus, I really wanted them to have a conversation like the one Carson and Mrs. Patmore had. Which is all a long story about how this fic came about.

* * *

In the late hours of the evening, Mrs. Hughes set about, in her usual forthright fashion, giving voice to the things she had so far failed to articulate, even in her own thoughts. Her conversation with Mrs. Patmore, such as it had been, had made it clear to her how very much such a thing needed to be done. As much as she appreciated the cook's willingness to lend an ear, Mrs. Hughes had decided against admitting the precise nature of her fears about the marriage. She could quite easily see how such a conversation could lead to involving Mrs. Patmore, recruiting her to ask questions on her behalf. She couldn't put Mrs. Patmore or Mr. Carson through that.

'I wish you'd tell me what's wrong,' Mrs. Patmore had said, her voice dropping as she'd stepped further into the room.

Mrs. Hughes had sighed. 'You'll say I'm being stupid.'

'Well, maybe you are,' Mrs. Patmore had told her, waiting to hear the rest of it, but her words had given Mrs. Hughes pause.

'Do you know, I think I am,' Mrs. Hughes had said with another sigh – stupid, perhaps, about this _situation_ with Mr. Carson, but certainly for involving Mrs. Patmore in something so personal. Mrs. Patmore was a dear friend, undoubtedly, but the nature of this particular commission, such as it would be – well.

No, it was something she ought to do herself. The difficulty lay in finding the right words.

'I'll tell you when I've sorted it,' she'd promised the cook, standing to usher her out, but Mrs. Patmore had paused in the doorway.

'You did mean it, right?' she'd asked, lingering over the threshold. 'When you accepted Mr. Carson?'

The readiness with which the words had left her had been comforting. 'I did mean it.' Mrs. Hughes felt sure of that, at least. She had meant it, every word. He was a very, very dear man – but thinking further on that was a little too risky for the moment.

As she plaited her hair for bed, Mrs. Hughes considered when it was that her feelings had gone from happiness (yes, she had been elated, she could admit that) to apprehension. More than apprehension, even – the sight of him in the hallways sent a shock of fright through her as much as it did the usual warmth. She supposed once the flurry had dimmed somewhat – after the staff had been told and the family informed – she'd begun to consider what being married to Mr. Carson would actually entail. She was a practical woman, after all. And she'd never thought herself vain, but here she was, wound tighter than a top at the thought of – of him _seeing_ her.

Mrs. Hughes climbed into bed and settled back. She could imagine it too easily: him seeing her like that, wanting her to please him in some way, how absurd she might feel, how – how embarrassed. She closed her eyes against the scene. She would not – could not feel that way. Not in front of Mr. Carson. Perhaps he would not even want her. Perhaps they would live as companions, in friendship – warm friendship, to be sure, loving friendship, even, but without – all of _that_.

What she wanted was another matter entirely. Mrs. Hughes couldn't remember a time she had felt so torn. How simple it would be if they could just retire together, living as they had been at Downton – and yet, in some foolish imagining in which Mr. Carson did want her, did find her pleasing, wanted her _in that way_ – well. There were times, when he spoke to her, his eyes dark, his voice deep (and his proposal had only sparked a certain sense of _permission_ in her subconscious, she thought), that, yes, she did want him, wanted him to – to kiss her, perhaps, or to hold her.

Rolling over, Mrs. Hughes decided to put it out of her mind for the time being. The hour was late, and if she was to have a sort of conversation about this with Mr. Carson, to find out what he expected, she would need to be as well-rested as possible.

The memory of his proposal – the tears in his eyes, the raw emotion in his face, the joy in his expression that she could not wholly convince herself of in waking hours – floated before her as she settled into sleep.

* * *

In the morning, Mrs. Hughes readied herself in front of the looking-glass and considered her reflection. She'd not been bad-looking as a girl, she supposed, but those days were decades gone. With a sigh, she tucked her hair into place and left the attics, making her way downstairs for breakfast.

Mrs. Patmore gave her a significant look when she entered the kitchen, and Mrs. Hughes frowned. If she wasn't subtle, the cook was even less so. Mr. Carson had almost certainly noticed she'd been putting him off, and looks exchanged between the cook and the housekeeper certainly wouldn't help matters.

'Good morning, Mrs. Patmore,' she said sternly.

'Daisy, go fetch the coconut ice, I want Mrs. Hughes to try it,' Mrs. Patmore ordered the girl.

'Yes, Mrs. Patmore.' Daisy wiped her hands on her apron and hurried off. She didn't seem to think anything was remiss.

'Have you had any more thoughts about – anything?' Mrs. Patmore asked.

'As a matter of fact, I have,' Mrs. Hughes replied, glancing over her shoulder to check that there were no errant footmen or butlers about.

'Have you done anything, then?' Mrs. Patmore asked, leaning slightly over the table toward her. Mrs. Hughes was surprised at the depth of concern she saw in the cook's eyes. She wondered what Mrs. Patmore would say if she knew – likely that she needed to ask Mr. Carson what his expectations were. But after that – that was the bit Mrs. Hughes fretted over.

She looked back at Mrs. Patmore. 'Not yet,' she replied curtly. 'Carry on.'

The morning was busy, and the afternoon even more so. She didn't see the butler until after luncheon. Laden with linens, she slowed when Mr. Carson came down the stairs. 'Ah, Mrs. Hughes.'

Her name – the partial lie that it was – and the narrow path of her recent thoughts gave her pause. 'You don't think maybe you should start calling me Elsie?'

'Not here,' Mr. Carson replied, looking scandalized by the suggestion. 'Not while we're working.'

'Go on then,' Elsie sighed. If this was a sort of foreshadowing for the future discussion she intended to have, it was not a promising one.

'I wish we could settle the date,' Mr. Carson told her. The slight hesitation with which he spoke was enough to confirm that he was, indeed, aware of her attempts to delay him. And as usual, the mention of the wedding ( _their_ wedding) was enough to send cold shivers down her spine. She should ask to speak with him this evening – they'd shared a glass of port or sherry often enough that he might not suspect anything was wrong.

Instead, Mrs. Hughes forced a smile. 'There's no rush, is there?' she said, hoping her voice was light, not strangled the way it felt. She could not look at his face as she strode by him.

It would have to be soon, she thought, flushing hotly. As soon as possible.

* * *

It was two days before she managed it, and the occasion rather fell into her lap. Perhaps the eve of Anna and Bates' good news was not excellent timing, but she had little choice.

She could hear the music from the servants' dining hall swell and fade as Daisy opened and closed the door, and then they were alone.

The sudden awkwardness between her and Mr. Carson was unbearable. He tapped his fingers once against the desk.

'Right.' He did not look at her. 'Well. Shall we rejoin the others?'

He was halfway to the door before she could speak. 'Before we do…'

He turned back slowly, and glanced at her briefly before turning away, keeping his tall shoulder like a barrier between them. Her heart clenched at the expression on his face – he looked like a man waiting to hang and who was resigned to his fate.

'I know I've been putting you off,' she said, unable to quite meet his gaze.

'Have you come to tell me you've changed your mind?' Mr. Carson asked gravely.

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. 'No, no, I haven't, not – not exactly. When I accepted your proposal,' she began, willing her voice to be steady, 'I hadn't fully considered all the – aspects – of the marriage.'

'I don't understand,' he rumbled, his brows contracting.

Mrs. Hughes took a deep breath, met his eyes once, and ploughed ahead. 'I would never want to appear ridiculous in your eyes, Mr. Carson.'

'Nor could you,' he said, perplexed.

'Yes, but, there are certain – certain _wifely duties_ I wonder if you – if you expect me to perform.'

'Don't all wives perform their duties? Good wives, anyhow – oh.'

She looked over at him. He leaned back, his eyes darting between her face and the floor, straightening slightly. 'I see.'

'Do you?' she asked, unfolding and folding her hands together. 'Only I'm not – I'm not as I used to be, Mr. Carson, and I wonder if – if you've given thought to it – if you intend for us to live – more as companions, I suppose, in friendship – warm friendship, certainly,' she added hastily.

'Is that what you're offering?' Mr. Carson asked, his chest rising and falling slowly with his breaths.

'I need to know what you anticipate,' Mrs. Hughes said, feeling her shoulders tense and her heart pound heavily. 'As I said – I'm not – I'm a woman in late middle-age, Mr. Carson, I don't want to feel – absurd, or embarrassed – not with you.'

When she looked up again, he was staring at her intently. She felt herself flush, struggling to meet his gaze. 'Mrs. Hughes,' he said, slow and serious, 'in my eyes, you are beautiful.'

Mrs. Hughes felt her breath catch in her throat, and she felt as though she'd stopped breathing.

'I want a proper marriage with you, a true marriage,' he said, dark eyes never leaving her face. 'I am happy, and tickled, and bursting with pride that you would agree to be my wife. I want us to live as closely as two people can in the time that remains to us on Earth.'

Feeling tears gather in her eyes, Mrs. Hughes took a shaking breath. After all her fretting and worrying, there was only one thing to say, one decision to be made. 'I was afraid I'd be a disappointment to you,' she said, her fingers trembling. 'But if you're sure…?'

'I have never been so sure of anything,' Mr. Carson said, a faint tremor in his rumbling voice.

'Then, Mr. Carson, if you want me, you may have me.'

Something heavy lifted out of his face, lightened his features, something joyful and tender and profoundly relieved. Mr. Carson stepped forward, closing the last of the distance between them. He lay his large hands gently on her cheeks and kissed her softly.

Mrs. Hughes felt all the uncertainty of the past weeks leave her in a rush; she felt as though she were coming back into herself, and leaving behind the foolish, nervous woman she'd been since December. His lips were warm, sure; he felt steady against her. When he pulled back, his eyes glossy with unshed tears, she felt the same rush of feeling she had at his proposal, and stepped closer into his arms. She felt his lips on her forehead, her breath catching in her throat, and a smile lifted her lips as she relaxed into him.

She felt his fingers stroke once over her hair as he tucked her into his arms. She settled into his chest and felt his arms tighten around her, heard his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Perhaps, she thought fleetingly, this bedroom business wouldn't be quite as bad as she'd feared.

'Shall we rejoin the others?' he asked, after a long moment had passed.

'In a moment,' Mrs. Hughes said. 'Let's settle the date first, shall we?'

When it was done – the day chosen, the commitment made – they returned to the servants' hall and found Mrs. Patmore approximating a dance with Sergeant Willis; Daisy and Andy, as well as Mr. Moseley and Miss Baxter, were dancing with more success. Anna and Mr. Bates looked as happy as Mrs. Hughes had ever seen them.

She felt Mr. Carson's hand ghosting over her lower back. His low voice rumbled in her ear. 'Would you…?' He tipped his head toward the dancers.

Mrs. Hughes put her hand in his large one and stepped in close. Something full and giddy was ballooning in her chest; she felt his hand slide to her back and followed his lead as they joined the others, the music crackling around them.


End file.
